Val McDermid: The Vanishing Point

It was hard to believe it was a random abduction, a spur-of-the- moment snatch. Someone had planned this. Obviously it hadn’t been a real TSA officer who had walked off with Jimmy, otherwise Parton or Lopez would have known about it. That meant it was an impostor. But you couldn’t just hang around indefinitely in a lookalike uniform without attracting attention from the real security people. It was hard to resist the conclusion that Jimmy had been a very specific target. And that meant a kidnapper who knew his tragic history. Not to mention their travel plans.

Please God, let him be OK. She couldn’t bear the thought of Jimmy suffering any more. He’d already gone through more than any five-year-old should have to endure. Sometimes when he snuggled into her at bedtime, she imagined herself soaking up his pain, taking it up into her body like lymph nodes absorbing toxins, restoring him to some magical default state where he hadn’t been hurt beyond bearing. What sort of bastard would be willing to add to that burden of pain and fear?

Stephanie pushed the thought away, refusing to acknowledge that she knew anyone who could contemplate such cruelty. But the rogue notion wouldn’t be hushed.

She needed to do something that would shift her focus. ‘Isn’t there some sort of system for sending out an alarm about kidnapped children? I’m sure I saw a TV programme about it. You signal to drivers on the motorways or something?’

‘You’re thinking about the Amber Alert,’ Lopez said. ‘When there’s a child abduction, they put messages up on the gantries on the highway. But it goes a lot wider than that. They broadcast it on the radio, they put a ticker on the TV news stations. A lot of people subscribe to SMS messages too. It’s been real effective in a lot of cases.’

‘They should be doing that for Jimmy.’ Stephanie grabbed her hair on either side of her head and clung to it. ‘They should be doing it now.’

‘Officer Parton has the matter in hand.’ Lopez didn’t sound too convinced.

‘You’ve got a radio there. Can’t you find out what’s going on? Please?’

Lopez looked embarrassed. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Believe me, the wheels are turning now.’

‘But not fast enough,’ Stephanie said savagely. ‘There’s a little boy out there who’s growing more and more scared the longer he’s away from me. I hope you can live with that, Officer Lopez. Because when I get out of here, yours will be one of the names in the headlines. I have media contacts that would make your eyes water. And I will be putting them to good use.’

‘I don’t think threats are the way to go right now, ma’am.’

‘From my perspective, threats are the only way to go. Because appealing to you people’s humanity isn’t working, is it? Maybe I need to start appealing to your self-interest. Do you want a future in this career, Officer Lopez? Or do you want to come out of this as one of the good guys?’

Lopez took a step towards her. Stephanie expected anger or fear, but what she got was something completely different. Lopez laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m going to pretend you never said any of that. You’re scared. I get that. But my advice is to dial back on the threats till you get some place you can act on them. This organisation doesn’t need much excuse to hold people incommunicado.’

On the surface, it sounded like gentle reason. To Stephanie, it seemed a more chilling threat than anything she could have come up with.

Vivian McKuras put the phone down gently, as if she didn’t want to startle it into biting her. She’d expected her boss to rip the kidnapping case from her grasp and assign her to going through passenger lists or something equally mindless. Instead, she’d interrupted what sounded like a major alert. He’d gabbled – gabbled! – that they’d intercepted a credible suicide bomber threat to an imminent political rally featuring the First Family. Every available body – except hers, obviously – was out there trying to close down the risk before it spiralled beyond control. Normally, she’d have been unsettled by such a display from a man who had apparently adopted cool as his watchword in high school and hadn’t veered from it since. But today, she welcomed it. Because today it meant she had control of her first major case. Twenty-seven years old and she had her own major case. Never mind that her boss had told her to bring in her airport colleagues to run things with her. She preferred to think of that as a suggestion rather than an instruction. This was her case. This was where she got the chance to turn things round for herself.

The first thing she had to do was to set up the Amber Alert. She needed a description of the child and a recent photograph. Luckily, all that was at her fingertips. Literally. Vivian opened her email and sent an urgent message to her opposite number at ICE HSI, the catchily named Immigration and Customs Enforcement and Homeland Security Investigations.

Hi, Kevin. I’m inquiring about a minor child your team admitted this afternoon. No immigration issue, but it looks as if the boy may have been subsequently abducted. He came in from the UK accompanied by Stephanie Jane Harker, UK citizen. According to my info, she was carrying British court papers authorising her to travel with the child. We have to put an Amber Alert together, so I need copies of everything you’ve got asap – the child’s name, DOB, description. If you’ve got a photo, either from the passport or the system, so much the better. We’ve got CCTV images, but they’re never hi-res enough to do much with. Also, any notes you’ve got regarding the paperwork would be helpful. Thanks.

And because she was a belt-and-braces kind of woman, she sent Kevin a text message to alert him to her request.

Deep breath.

Until she had some information to work with, there was nothing more she could do to set the Amber Alert in motion. Time to talk to Stephanie Jane Harker.

When a woman walked into the room instead of Randall Parton, Stephanie felt irrationally relieved. Years of working in an industry where the women were as likely to put the shaft in as any man should have cured her of such gender-based optimism, but she couldn’t help it. Especially where children were concerned, she still expected a smidgeon of solidarity from another woman.

This one looked as if she meant business. She glanced at Stephanie, then took Lopez to one side and bent her head to speak softly to the TSA officer. How would I describe her if I was writing about her? It was Stephanie’s default position when she met anyone new. Her clothes were neat but anonymous – dark-grey trousers, navy blazer, dark-green shirt with only the top button undone. A flash of gold chain at the neck, plain gold studs in the ears. Short brown hair, feathered round the ears and forehead to emphasise looks that might have been elfin if it hadn’t been for the square jaw. A lazy writer would have made something of the hint of Irish in the green eyes and faint dusting of freckles across nose and cheeks. But although Stephanie knew she was no great shakes as a writer, she’d never been quite that lazy. This was America, land of the melting pot. Not a place to make easy assumptions about roots.

Now the woman turned back to face her, flashing a perfunctory, formal smile. ‘I’m Special Agent Vivian McKuras,’ she said, pulling out the chair and sitting down. ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Stephanie said. ‘A proper law-enforcement official at last. Presumably you know my legal rights?’ She was pleased to see a flash of surprise in the agent’s eyes.

‘As far as I’m concerned, Ms Harker, you’ve made an allegation of a serious crime. That’s my sole interest in you. I don’t see why you would need a lawyer to make a crime report. At some point, my colleagues in the TSA will want to give you a pat-down, since you set off the metal detector at the security point, but I don’t see why you’d need a lawyer for that either.’ She flipped open a tablet computer and woke it from its hibernation. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the most urgent thing right now is to track down a missing child.’